


A Different Kind of Irony

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Starvation, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: There are too many things Simmons should have thought about. When he realizes this, it’s already too late.





	A Different Kind of Irony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



> Read the tags - there are no happy endings here!

There’s dried blood on Simmons’ gloves. He hasn’t noticed until now.

He absentmindedly begins to rub off red flakes, turning his head to stare out of one of the ship’s windows. He knows some people find space beautiful but to Simmons the never-ending blackness is just terrifying. There are not enough limitations: just too much left undiscovered.

The ship is so silent that Palomo’s voice seems to echo. The lieutenant is turning in his seat to talk to them, unanswered questions and nervous laughter thrown in their direction. Simmons looks at his teammates. Most of them are sleeping, or at the very least resting. No one bothers to reply to Palomo.

“So where’s big bro?” Kai suddenly asks and finally Palomo falls quiet. She looks at each and every one of them until her visor is set on Simmons. He’s given her answers before, when she’d feared the worst and he’d explained Grif wasn’t  here, he was somewhere else, safe, not even a part of this mess.

“He, uh, wanted to stay behind on the moon.”

“Dude’s probably beating his nap record,” Tucker mutters sourly from his seat. “I bet he’ll be so fucking smug once we tell him what we had to go through. I kinda wished I’d stayed behind to have a vacation while shit was going on. But then I wouldn’t have punched the bastard right in his stupid face.”

Tucker holds up a fist, as if his punch had been strong enough for the color of Temple's armor to rub off.

Simmons is still trying to scrape away Gene's dried blood. He doesn’t look up to see Kai who's still staring at him, waiting.

He looks at Bitters instead and asks, "Have you...heard anything from him? Maybe?"

Simmons knows that Grif wanted to be alone, that he wanted the others to go away, and that is why he said what he said. The words are still clear in his brain, like a memory of a red _F_ on a paper. Failed friendship, failed expectations, failed perception of what Simmons believed to be a friendship, at least.

Simmons doesn't hate Grif. He's learned that much on their journey. He remembers Basic Training, and the orange soldier he had been partnered up with, and the constant insults, the trash lying everywhere, the lack of respect and the sheer laziness - Simmons had thought it was hatred he had felt.

But now, with the memory of Gene, and Gene's voice and assumptions and maroon armor, and the satisfaction when the knife had gone through visor - _now_ Simmons knows hatred. It's hot and buzzing and sometimes it feels like an adrenalin rush, and he is yet to decide if he enjoys the feeling.

Bitters hasn't changed during this year. He’s uncomfortably blunt and doesn't flinch when he answers the question. "So Chorus has been pretty much spaceblocked. No supply ships getting out if that's what you're asking. 'sides, last we heard, the reporter chick was going to drag you away from there. So no: we didn't think of visiting."

Something ice-cold leaks into Simmons' artificial stomach. "He hasn't contacted you?"

"How?" There is an accusing snort in his voice. "Didn't you take the ship?"

"We... Oh..."

Simmons swallows. Bitters settles back in his seat.

"So," Kai says loudly, definitely waking up those who might have still been asleep, "are we picking up big bro or not? ‘cause I know how to highjack a ship so the answer is fucking yes, by the way."

Someone is impatiently tapping the back of their foot against the wall.

"I-"

"I'd still recommend getting Carolina to a hospital," Doc suggests, making everyone aware of his unwanted presence. "Or a spa, at least. Actually, a spa might be better."

“I know _the_ perfect-“

Carolina cuts off Donut with a worn: “I’m fine.”

“What about Wash?”

“Wash is stable-“

“There’ve been no supply ships?” Dylan enters the conversations and no one comments on her question. They’ve all been told the answer, and now the realization fills the cramped ship in the shape of horrified silence.

Jax is sitting next to her and turns his head to search for a visible reaction from someone. “Ooh, that really sets the plot’s countdown. Now when you’ve already established the fire and that methshroom story-“

“What the fuck is a methshroom?” Kaikaina asks. She’s still looking at Simmons. “’cause it sounds like something I should know about after all the stuff I’ve had to confiscate. The cop isn’t here, right, ‘cause you should hear of some of the things people tried spice up the parties with-“

“Do you have the coordinates for the moon?” Carolina asks Smith who’s taken the job as the pilot. He nods. “We go there now.”

“Are you sure-“ Doc isn’t allowed to finish his sentence.

“ _Now_.”

Kai, satisfied with the sudden hurry, goes to pester Smith at the controls.

Caboose tilts his head. “Simmons misses Grif.”

In the other end of the ship Bitters snorts.

Simmons continues to wring his hands in order to clean his glove. He stares out of the window again. The emptiness of space just reminds him of running in water.

* * *

The ship lands and Kai is the first one outside. There’s a bounce in her steps, understandable after hours of the same question: “when are we there?”

Simmons watches her go. Her shouts for her brother seem even louder on the quiet island.

Blue Base is closest and she disappears inside, only seeing a shade of grey. Simmons and his team go to their former home.

“How tidy,” Donut says as they come close enough. Like his teammate, Simmons notices the lack of trash bags everywhere, and something heavy settles in his stomach. He can hear Kai yelling in the distance.

“Grif?” Simmons calls and steps inside the base. It’s dark. He can’t get the light to switch on so he enters the main room with a limited vision. The corner of the kitchen is illuminated with a blue glow, and he walks closer to inspect the impressive pile of methshrooms.

The dull blue light cast off wrong vibes: this is Red Team’s home and the color if just _off_. Simmons picks up one of the mushrooms and notices a part of it missing, shaped like a bite.

Grif has to be out running off the effects of the fungus, or he has already crashed and is fast asleep in his room. Simmons has already witnessed how much a single mushroom can drain from him. Grif must be so worn out right now he hasn’t heard their yelling.

From the corner of his eye Simmons notices the fridge door has been left ajar. He sighs in annoyance but is not surprised to see that Grif doesn’t follow his orders when he is not around. Leaving the fridge open is a waste of electricity and the food will go warm.

As Simmons is about to close it he realizes it is of no concern.

It’s empty.

He hurries to Grif’s room, a name escaping his lips in the process, and he slips on an empty can that rolls down the hallway before settling in a corner.

The hallway’s ceiling light is just bright enough for him to see contours when he peaks inside the bedroom. The door has been left open so he never has to consider whether or not to knock. The air inside the bedroom is stuffed, accompanied with sickly smell.

Simmons blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness. His cyborg eyeball has an easier time, and he can make out the ring of volleyballs around the bed.

He focuses on them.

He remembers playing at the beach before the reporter showed up, back when their homes had been burning and Grif had saved the mood by throwing a volleyball in Sarge’s face – an action that had immediate consequences.

When the others had joined in it had turned into an actual volleyball game, though with some element from Grifball being included, mainly because Sarge preferred to slam the ball as hard as he could towards Grif instead of over the net.

Now the balls are lying among the trash in Grif’s darkened room. Unlike the rest of the base it isn’t spotless. The balls, however, don’t seem abandoned with the way they have carefully been placed around the bed in a manner that reminds Simmons of his grandmother’s tales of fairy rings.

Simmons stares at them until they become more and more clear. The shadows are still embracing them but now he can see the changes that have happened to the balls. It’s all wrong. The darkness makes it harder to recognize the colors but once he understands the pattern, it’s impossible not to acknowledge the similarities, not to see the handmade visors, all turned to stare at the person in the bed, and it’s wrong to the point where Simmons has to lean against the doorframe to prevent himself from falling.

He wants to lift his head and raise his eyes towards the bed. He blinks and stares at the volleyballs while his heartbeat fastens. He swallows. Opens his mouth. A noise dies in the back of his dry throat.

When he takes a step closer a firm hand closes around his upper arm. Simmons’ head snaps upwards. His eyes widen.

Sarge drags him away, leading him back down the hallway. Simmons stumbles on an empty bag of chips that crackles under his foot but Sarge’s grip on him is unforgiving and it keeps him upright. The flashing light in the kitchen only worsens his nausea and he wants to throw up but a voice inside his head reminds him of the helmet – he doesn’t want to drown, not like that, but it already feels like he can’t breathe.

The helmet muffles the voices and he tears it off. As it lands on the floor it rolls around until the visor is staring up at him. For a brief moment, he sees the crack where the knife went through, drops of blood near the edges, but then he remembers Gene is dead back on Earth and Simmons is here and they are not the same.

Sarge is talking and Simmons wants to answer but can’t. It’s like when Grif quit and Simmons’ voice failed him. He still isn’t sure if it was acceptance or denial. Judging from how it still hurts, it’s probably the latter.

Dylan is there, asking questions, of course. Sarge’s replies are rough and quick, and Simmons knows that is a sign of alarm so instead he listens to Donut and his sharp gasp of surprise.

A part of him is morbidly curious, wanting to go back and see the sight again, just to be sure. The other part wants to run away, and it wins, and Simmons tears his arm free only to stumble into Dylan. She reaches out to support him.

More persons are appearing behind her, like some horribly perfect timing in Jax’ stupid films.

Simmons manages to get out of the base as Kai begins to shout. “Yo, what the fuck, let go of me, you assholes, let go, where’s-“

Carolina has a hold on her shoulder and Kai is thrashing wildly, fighting against the Freelancer with no hesitation. Tucker appears quietly to help calm her down. Caboose is behind them, watching wordlessly. He turns his head to stare at Simmons.

The mist of confusion, shock and desperation has spread, and the lieutenants are arriving as Simmons flees.

“Wha-“ Palomo’s question fades before it has even been worded properly.

Jensen jumps out of the way as her former captain comes barreling through. Bitters doesn’t move. Simmons is forced to step around him, treacherous legs threatening to give out, in order to run away from the scene. Kai is screaming in the distance.

He unconsciously goes to the beach. He isn’t sure why. He has never liked water and with his addition of his cyborg parts swimming had been made impossible for him. Grif liked water. Simmons had sat on the beach and watched him disappear into the waves, instinctively beginning to fret whenever his head had been under the surface for too long.

The water is calm today. Simmons sits down, human leg trembling.

The sky turns orange as the sun begins to set.  Simmons looks up and waits and does his best not to think.

The back of his throat hurts, like the beginning of a flu. He doesn’t feel warm, though, just very, very cold.

When he closes his eyes, he is back in the darkened room so he keeps them open. It hurts.

The world is still spinning slightly, like after going on a too long run while dehydrated. Maybe if he passes out he can wake up to a world that isn’t screaming _wrong wrong wrong too late_ at him.

There’s a can of soda right next to his hand. It’s empty, partly covered in sand and rust have begun to spread on the metal lid. It is like someone has sat here before, at the beach while staring at the sky. Waiting. Simmons hugs his own legs more tightly.

The sun is swallowed by the sea, and the sky goes from orange to maroon. Pretty colors, Simmons decides.

“Simmons?”

It’s Dylan who approaches, after an uncertain amount of time. Simmons has not thought about how long he’s been sitting here. He has tried his best not to think at all.

The reporter takes another step closer, tentatively.

He wonders why it isn’t his team that has come to face him, but chances are they are busy right now. Busy with dealing with the situation Simmons is still denying.

Simmons turns his head to stare at the water again. Dylan sits down next to him after some seconds of consideration. Her foot accidently kicks the can loose from the sand.

“Go away.”

She doesn’t. For a moment, they just sit in silence. Simmons wishes she would go away. More importantly, he wishes she had never showed up in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Simmons reaches for the can and starts to slowly crush it with his cyborg hand.

“We, uh, lost most of the rations in the fire,” he says despite him already telling her this once, back when she first appeared with all her news and questions. He licks his lips. Swallows. “I told him the methshrooms weren’t good for him. Not on an empty stomach. They just… wear your body out. Like junk food, but worse. They don’t even taste good.” They are quite bitter, actually. Simmons remembers the taste from the time Grif spiked his food.

When they had left the moon, they had brought along supplies for the trip. Simmons hadn’t thought of what they had left behind. Only Grif who had been standing lonely at the beach when Simmons had looked down as the ship took off.

There are too many things he should have thought more about.

“We think he was sleeping,” she tells him softly, “that he just went to bed. It wasn’t intentional. He must have thought-“

A noise escapes Simmons’ mouth and she falls quiet. He doesn’t want to imagine what Grif thought. He doesn’t want to imagine Grif curling into a ball to calm his growling stomach and eventually soothing his pain with the only thing he thought edible left on the moon.

His fingers create dents in the can that gives in with a loud crack.

Dylan does not go away. “It wasn’t-“ She stops, reaches out for his arm but then pulls back. “I’m sorry. I was the one who pressured him into talking, maybe if I had kept my distance he-“

Simmons lunges for her. Gene never stood a chance against the strength of his cyborg arm and the approaching knife, and he doubts Dylan will do any better. He doesn’t attack, though. He grips her arm tightly enough to hurt and just stops. He stares at her, wide-eyed, and clings onto her as if she is a lifeline.

Her visor gives him no comfort. He is not quite sure what would help now, honestly. The realization is creeping up on him, slowly circling in on the beach to finally embrace him. “Oh god, _Kai_ , she…” He’s happy he left the base. He’s not sure how to handle the sister. He knows of her anger and outburst, and now he would not be surprised if she tried to kill him.

He deserves it. And the Grif-siblings have a too long record of being left behind. Simmons never thought he would be the one adding to that list until he had been standing in the ship, watching the island grow smaller and smaller as they took off.

And he never though that this… He hadn’t thought. But he would have returned, eventually. It would still have been too late, Simmons knows this now. The back of his head is screaming this realization into the void the shock left behind in his brain.

Dylan’s hand closes around his wrist and Simmons wants to tell her something but he can’t. His lips are trembling too much. The vision is blurry now, with tears streaming from his right eye.

 “ _Grif_.”

He hopes he hadn’t been lying back when he told them he quit. He hopes Grif hated him. Of everything he can hope for right now, Simmons clings onto that wish. It won’t undo anything, not now when everything is already too late, but in this knot of unfairness that hatred would only be rightful.

Grif should have hated him. Even if the words had been lies, he must have found the anger by himself, alone and abandoned. The lack of care had been proven by the dwindling supplies Grif had been left with.

He must have hated him. Simmons hopes Grif spent every day alone hating him. It’s only right. He knows Grif can’t hate him as much as Simmons hates himself, but any anger would be a comfort.

The orange color has faded from the sky. It’s dark now.

Simmons looks up, lips trembling, but says nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Another birthday gift for my dear friend Creatrixanimi. Before you all start yelling at me, I want you to know this was requested – I do not just throw this much darkness at people as a birthday gift if it’s unwanted XD
> 
> See, I can reveal that Creatrixanimi is a whump, angst and tragedy lover (like meeeee!) which is awesome, and when we discussed how wrong it felt to have Simmons point out that they had a dwindling amount of food supplies left and then leaving Grif behind, this dark ending came to mind, and we both agreed it could be a good birthday fic (don’t judge us…).
> 
> You wanted me to break your heart – I hope I succeeded! This is probably the darkest thing I’ve ever written but darkness was wanted! 
> 
> I hope you have an awesome day, Creatrixanimi, and I hope the rest of you readers enjoyed this piece of angst.


End file.
